The Missionary and the Mermaid
by Enchantable
Summary: As difficult as it was for her to be saved by a human, it was even harder for him be saved by a creature he previously had not thought existed.
1. Chapter 1

**Okay so I went to see PoTC 4 and while it wasn't 'black pearl' it wasn't unwatchable. But like the previous movies I totally locked onto Philip and Syrena. I mean, could they be a little cuter in all their awkwardness? So I dropped my other fics like hot potatoes (sorry!) and typed up this little piece that attempts to take us from 'you gave me a name' to 'i'll cry tears of joy at your well being'. Obviously its all in Syrena's pov because I found her to be the more interesting of the two. **

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It was too warm.

The air was too dry, the arms around her were too thick, the skin covering them was too warm. The thin, damp cotton that clothed her had already dried in the air, now it hung rough against her skin. Skin that was not meant to be subject to the dry air and certainly not meant to cover her from head to toe. She refused to look at the toes that now took the place of her fins, toes that led to legs that led upwards. They were long and pale, nothing like the tail that should have been there. The air brushed across them, reminding her constantly that she was not where she should have been. And her left foot ached terribly where the man who carried hers sword had pierced it, back when it was a fin.

Oh why _why_ hadn't she fled with the others?

If only that barrel hadn't pinned her, trapping her in the shallow lagoon. She had been so ready to attack the lone sailor, so ready to be a hero instead of the quiet, little thing the others saw her as. But when the moment had come, instead of leaping up and attacking him she had grabbed his leg and yanked him out of harms way. The excuse was in her mind, that _she_ wanted to kill him and not some falling piece of debris. It was an excuse that would be accepted, with disappointment, even though she would have no trinket to show for the death she had not caused. That was the way it always was. As the others rejoiced and laughed over their kills she would sit to the side, unable to look away from the glazed eyes of the dead.

Not like the eyes of the man who carried her, whose gaze was set resolutely forward. She could feel his hands against her, hands that were rough with callouses and dry with salt. One wrapped around her shoulders, the palm firmly pressed against the cotton. The other curved around the outside of her thigh, just above the skin on the back of her knees. But while the hand around her shoulders sometimes shifted slightly against the fabric, the one on her thighs never moved, almost as if he was afraid to shift his fingers against her bare skin. Or perhaps it was simply because she was heavy. She felt heavy, as if everything in her was being pulled down towards the water where she belonged.

"We rest here!" the raven haired woman shouted back to them.

The man who carried her moved towards the rocks nearby, lowering her onto one. His hand shifted against her skin, brushing higher on her thigh. Heat rushed into his cheeks, his eyes lowering as he moved his hand out of the way. Her own hand was slower to slide from his neck, joining its brother on the opening of the shirt he had placed around her. Her eyes landed on him, unwilling to look down at the limbs that stretched from where her tail should have been, but he had turned to another member of the crew and was speaking to them. Much to her surprise, the man reached up and tore the remaining sleeve from his shirt, tossing it to him.

He walked back over to her, her eyes following his every movement as he came to stand in front of her and kneeled down, one hand touching her ankle. Her foot jerked in surprise at the strange touch and his head flew up.

"I'm sorry, did I hurt you?" he asked.

She shook her head, pressing her lips together lest she show her fangs in surprise and anger at the fact she had an ankle to be touched at all. His hand slid around the delicate curve of the joint, his rough fingers moving slowly as if he could sense this was an alien experience for her. Her eyes watched as he braced her foot against the fabric of his pants. She could fee the muscles of his thigh and the hard bone of his knee underneath the bottom of her foot. She watched as he turned the sleeve the sailor had given him inside out and turned back to her foot, his hand once more sliding over her skin.

A sound escaped her lips as the skin dragged against the fabric of his pants and the strangest sensation spread across her foot, causing the limb to jerk against his hand.

Surprise widened her eyes as she pressed her lips tighter, looking firmly at the ground. The sensation was strange but not as unpleasant as the feeling of his hand around her ankle. It was almost, but no quite, pleasant, it certainly brought her closer to smiling than anything that had happened so far.

"You're ticklish," the man told her, drawing her eyes up to him. He was looking intently at her foot but his gaze lifted to meet hers, "many people-" he stopped, "it's not uncommon," he told her, "not on the feet," his eyes went back to her foot and she felt his grip adjust, "I'll be quick."

He wrapped the sleeve around her foot and the cut that still graced it, tying off the sleeve as she fought to keep still. She focused on his hands, watching as they moved quickly without the water to slow them. It was odd how hands could be quicker above water but the journey to wherever they were going seemed endless. It would be much quicker if they could just swim there, though she knew without her tail that would take much longer as well. Being a human seemed to mean that everything went slower. His hands finished and lingered on the top of her foot, calloused fingers pressed lightly to the soft skin just underneath her bandages.

"i am sorry about this," he said, his eyes rising to meet hers.

"Then why did you do it?" she asked, unable to hold her silence.

Shock engulfed his features as he gaped at her. Resolutely she held his gaze, refusing to let him shirk the responsibility for the injury on her foot and the capture it had led to. He seemed shocked at the fact she was speaking at all and she realized that they both had assumed she would hold her silence for the duration of the journey. There was no going back now. Doing her best to exude some of the confidence that Tamara brought up so easily, she raised her chin and looked down at him.

"I didn't think I would actually get you," he admitted. "I'm not one of them, you see," he continued, "I am a missionary, sent by the Church to spread the word of God. These pirates captured me some weeks ago."

"Why do they not let you go?" she asked finally.

"I do not know," he said, "it is Blackbeard's daughter who keeps me alive, Blackbeard himself is not a man of God."

"Is Syrena a man of God?" she asked quietly.

He opened his mouth before closing it and lowering his head. She watched him carefully, not certain what to make of his response. He seemed so intent on his 'God' that it struck her as odd he would christen her with a name not of the people he cared so deeply for. His eyes rose to meet hers and she was surprised to see that pink stained his cheeks, making him seem all the younger.

"A character, in a story," he said, "one that was read to me many times as a boy," the pink stayed on his cheeks, "but I must once more apologize, this time for my boldness, I only sought to help these pirates see you as more than 'the creature', not give you a new name."

She looked up at him, surprised at the honesty in his eyes. He seemed to genuinely feel bad for the result his actions had wrought, bad and surprised. As if he had not known what would happen at all. At once she felt comforted and disheartened by his surprise, realizing that he had very little idea what to expect from the pirates as well. She shifted on the rocks, suddenly even less certain of the situation at hand than before.

"Move out!"

Her head flew towards the female with the raven hair who issued the command. All around them the others were moving out, following the order issued from sure lips. He stood up, gently placing her foot on the ground before walking over to her side, an apology written on his face. She looked down at the rock she was sitting on, wishing desperately that it was in the water. That she could simply slide off of it and swim until her tail ached and the pirates were little more than a bad memory. She would take her sisters teasing over her situation any day.

He was besides her abruptly, bending down with his arm sliding around her shoulder. Forcing her hand away from the fabric it clutched so desperately, she slid her hand around his neck as his other gently took its place under her legs. She could feel the shift in his muscles as he straightened up, lifting her as though she weighed nothing. Or, rather, as though she weighed no more than he would weigh if they were underwater and their situation was reversed. Easily he fell into step with the others, walking across the unfriendly terrain with confidence.

"Hey Missionary!" one of the pirates cajoled, "if your arms get tired, I'll be glad to carry her for a spell! Or a night!"

The other pirates howled and she felt his fingers tighten against her skin as his jaw ground together. He was angry at their words, as though they could actually hurt her. As long as they decided to spend the night by a pool of water, she would show them what her sisters took such delight in doing to men. She glanced around doubtfully, realizing that any water was far enough away that if they stopped for the night she would be in trouble. Lowering her head she took in the sight of the legs that dangled over the edge of Missionary's arm, wondering if it would be even possible to run. Or fight. Or do anything but be helpless.

"I will not let them hurt you," he assured her quietly, so as for the other pirates not to hear him.

Her fingers tightened against the back of his neck, the only acknowledgment of his words as her lips remained silent and her eyes firmly downwards. She could feel wetness against her arm and she knew that no matter the face he gave for the pirates he was tired. She looked down at the tips of her toes, wondering if her limbs would work now, if she could take some of the burden on herself. But she did not want to slow him down by trying to figure such a thing out. Missionary was in enough trouble as it was, he did not need to be worse off because of her.

Night began to fall as the sunset took hold of the sky. She twisted her head upwards, looking and wondering how it could have possibly only been a day since she had been kidnapped. Settling forward, she heard an odd sound escape Missionary's mouth before he bit it back. But the pink on his cheeks had darkened to almost the red of the sky as the sun sunk down. She frowned, it was an odd color to see on a human's face. His eyes moved over to her and her concern increased at the pained look in his gaze, which he quickly stamped down, his eyes focusing resolutely ahead.

Leaning forward so as not to be heard by the others, she placed her lips nearby his ear.

"Are you alright?" she asked quietly.

"Fine," he bit out, though the tone of his voice suggested otherwise.

She frowned at the terse reply, glancing around to look for the source of his distress. There was nothing she could see behind them to suggest he had stepped on anything sharp enough to hurt his feet through the thick soles of his boots. No plants had snapped back to sting the skin left exposed by his black vest. Two of the other pirates seemed to be sniggering at something but they stopped when her eyes flashed. Even so, she could not see them having done anything but laugh, and Missionary had not jerked like she had when he tickled her so she did not think they had done anything.

Which left only her.

Frowning, she looked at her hand which pressed to the side of his neck, following the curve of it across his shoulders until it fell away from his body. Her side was against his chest, the curve of her ribs pressed along the point where his met. Her hips and thighs followed, blossoming from where the edge of the shirt ended to press skin to skin against his side. Nothing was different. One of his arms was around her shoulders, his hand cupping the curve of her arm, the other was hooked under her legs, now well above where her knees were. It must have shifted when she strained to catch a glance at the sun.

Loosening her grip on the shirt, she pressed her other hand to his shoulder and pushed herself up once more, allowing his hand to slide down closer to her knees. Instantly the pulse she saw beating in his throat lessened and the tenseness around his jaw relaxed. Lowering herself back down, she returned her other hand to the front of the shirt, holding it closed as the red began to fade from his cheeks. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye but she kept her eyes on her hand, unsure of what to make of what had just happened.

"Thank you," he said finally, his voice matching hers for softness.

She nodded her head quietly, one of her fingers toying with the longer bit of fabric that stuck out from the rest.

"They're ties," Missionary spoke, "its a mans shirt, so its not designed for someone with-" the pink blossomed back in full force, "but it does close, if you would prefer not to hold it shut the entire journey."

Doubtfully she looked down at the longer bits of fabric. Grasping one between her fingers, she released his neck and lowered her other hand, picking up the bit that seemed to line up with it. Carefully she tied the two together before moving onto the next one. Frowning she looked down at the line of smaller holes that now divided the larger one before looking up at Missionary. He met her eyes and smiled apologetically at her confusion.

"Mans shirt," he explained.

She looked down, her hand sliding back up around his neck before she reached out and carefully placed her other hand by its brother, shifting the burden of her weight into what she hoped would be a more comfortable way for him. The sun finally sank below the sky, the moon giving what light it could. All around them she saw the men begin to trip, slowing down their progress. His steps changed, though while he moved slower he did not fall behind. Soon the group of pirates was scattered about the jungle as they made their way behind the raven haired woman.

"How did you know I needed air?" she asked quietly

"I could see you were unable to breathe," he replied.

"No-one else did," she pointed out.

"That is because they did not look," he said.

"Why did you?"

He looked away and even in the darkness she could see the pink that stained his cheeks once more.

"My mother used to tell me stories of mermaids," he said, "but I thought they were only tales, until I saw you," he looked back at her shyly, "my apologies," he added carefully, "I did not mean to stare."

She nodded her head and looked down again as they continued through the darkness. Hours seemed to pass in silence but he did not put her down or show any signs of strain in carrying her for hours. Finally the raven haired woman ordered that they would stop for a moment, though from the look she gave to him it was more out of a courtesy for him than the desire to be careful with the rest of the crew. He lowered her down to one of the tree roots nearby, making certain the shirt was securely around her before he straightened up, one hand reaching upwards and wrapping around the object dangling from the length of chord around his neck.

If she had planned to kill him she knew that was the trinket she would have taken back to her sisters. He seemed to have many things with such a symbol. The necklace around his throat, the book he had pushed into her coffin when the pirate had taken his sword back. Marina had brought a book down once and in a moment of boldness she had picked it up. But the yellow pages had already run soggy with black and at the slightest touch they seemed to fall apart. Marina had declared the cover to be the real prize but she could not help but wonder what had been written on the pages.

She turned her head to see the other pirates clustered over by the raven haired woman, trading swigs from a jug. Looking back at Missionary she frowned. He seemed to be having a conversation with the object, eyes closed and lips moving. Pressing her lips together she waited silently as he finished his conversation with the cross, opening his eyes and looking down at her.

"Does it speak back?" she asked him.

"This?" he pointed at the object, the surprise on his face matching the confusion on hers, "no," he said, "but it isn't meant to. This is a crucifix, a symbol of my faith. But it is not meant to speak to me."

"But you speak to it," she pointed out.

"I speak to God," he explained, "this," he continued, "helps me to think of him."

"Does he speak back?" she asked.

"Yes. not always in the clearest way," he said, "but yes, God does answer."

She frowned, not certain she liked the answer. The sound of feet on the ground drew both their gazes to the raven haired woman who walked over towards them with a cloth bundle in her hand. Missionary straightened and looked at her, but his eyes did not hold the same disgust and anger that they did for the other pirates. She held out the cloth bundle to him.

"For you," she said, "and the mermaid if this is what she eats."

"Somehow I doubt that," he said, taking the bundle from her and inspecting its contents, "we'll manage," he told her after a moment, "how long do we have?"

"Until you are finished," she said, glancing over her shoulder before looking at him, "be quick," she added, turning on her heel and walking to the others.

He watched he go before turning back to her, slowly coming over and sitting beside her on the root, opening the bundle. She looked at the pale squares nestled against the darker fabric. He picked one up and held it out to her. Carefully she took it, inspecting the pale square. Bringing it towards her nose, she sniffed it, unable to smell anything she recognized. Lowering it she placed the corner of it in her mouth.

"Wait, don't bite," came the quick instruction, "you'll break your tooth," she paused, looking over at him, "you've got to suck on it first," he explained, "to soften it."

Carefully she followed his example, placing the corner in her mouth and letting it soften. It was still hard when she bit into it but her tooth did not break. Silently they consumed the crackers and while she was grateful for something in her stomach she would have preferred something she could eat quickly and ravenously instead of the slow work of the crackers. Soon they had consumed as many as they dared and her mouth was dry enough to bring her to tears. Missionary stood up and walked over to the men, returning with a jug.

"It isn't water but it should help," he said offering it to her.

She placed it to her lips and took a long drink of the rum. That she had consumed before. Barrels fell to the sea when sailors and their boats were destroyed. It was, perhaps, the one spoil she and her sisters could truly enjoy. Lowering the jug, she looked at the surprised expression on his face before holding it out to him. He accepted it with a murmur of thanks and took a much smaller sip with a wince of distaste. Setting the jug down he looked over at the pirates before walking over to her and sitting down next to her once more, offering her the jug.

"Oy! The Missionary's over there with the Mermaid!" one of the men's voices rose above the rest.

She saw him tense in anger but something about the jibe struck her as odd.

"Missionary is not your name?" she asked.

He looked over at her and once again seemed surprised. She found she did not like the look of surprise on his face, especially not when it came to her and her actions. As though he could sense her dislike he quickly shook his head, a small smile coming to his lips.

"No," he said, "its Philip," he explained, "Philip Swift," he hesitated, "and your name is?"

"Syrena," she replied, lifting the jug to her lips.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw his smile widen in amusement. But it seemed to genuine and heartfelt to be directed at her. Lowering the jug she wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and looked over at him but the smile did not leave his face. If anything it widened further and she wondered if he would laugh. He had a nice enough voice, she imagined the sound of his laughter would not be unpleasant. Their eyes caught and for the first time she returned the smile with one of her own.

"Lets move out!" the woman shouted.

He stood up with a regretful sigh as she set the jug down, carefully bracing her hand against the root and pushing herself to her feet. He was by her side instantly as her legs trembled but she forced them steady. It would be easier for him to pick her up if she stood. His eyes swept across her, as if looking to see if she would fall but she refused to let her knees buckle. If she walked she would collapse and get them both in trouble, but she could at least stand. Slowly Philip reached out, his arm sliding underneath hers. She wrapped her arms around his neck as he bent down and slid his other arm underneath her legs, pulling her back into his arms as he straightened up and walked back towards the others.

Philip walked a bit away from the others. Not far enough to be accused of lagging but a bit away from the main group. She was glad, the pirates seemed to be more foul tempered as the night wore on, and she would much rather be off to the side with him than in the thick of them, even if he had stabbed her with a blade. She wondered if they were going to walk for the entire night. Blackbeard seemed intent on it, on reaching the Fountain as quickly as he could. But to get it to work he was going to need a tear from her. She did not like to think what they were going to do to get it.

Her fingers tightened against Philip's shoulder. If they wished for a tear they would have to go through great lengths to get it. Tamara had made it clear tears were for the weak and though she was many things not particularly prized by her Queen, weak was not one of them. Philip's hand tightened reassuringly against her shoulder and she looked over at him with a soft smile that he easily returned. They looked away before the others could make more comments. The raven haired woman pushed them through the night, barely allowing them a break until the sun began to crest over the horizon.

"We rest here!"

As they walked over to the clearing that the raven haired pirate shouted towards, she could see that this time Philip was glad to stop. His skin was shining with sweat and she had felt the hand on her legs shift several times in an effort to find a comfortable position to carry her in. Her own arms would have ached from pulling for as long as they had been walking and he would have been almost weightless to her. The clearing they were in had no roots or rocks to sit on, just the ground which the other pirates seemed more than content to use.

"I can stand," she said softly.

"Syrena-" he began but she shifted her legs resolutely against his hand, "hold onto me," he said finally, "and be careful of your foot."

She nodded her understanding and adjusted her grip on his shoulders. He moved his hand so that she could carefully lower her legs to the ground, touching her toes then the balls of her feet and finally her heels. Slowly she relaxed her grip on him, shifting more of her weight onto her legs. They trembled but held and though she knew that she would not be able to walk very far, standing was more than she could have done when her tail first fell away.

Sliding her hands from his shoulders, she gripped his arms before settling her hands on his forearms. Slowly she lowered herself down, letting him hold her up as much as he could as the alien muscles in her legs moved to accommodate her weight. She heard a few of the pirates sniggering at her struggle but ignored them, not wanting to strain Philip more than she already had. Finally she was sitting on the ground. Sliding her hands from his wrists, she carefully drew them into her lap.

Next to her, Philip dropped to the ground heavily and reached towards his neck before stopping, his eyes rising to look at her. Realizing she was staring at him, she focused her gaze elsewhere, understanding that it was difficult to look after injuries when the person who inflicted them was nearby. She looked down at the leaves under her legs, realizing that scooting away was not going to help either. Looking away was the best she could do for him. Instead she looked down at her own foot at the bandage tied around it. It had stopped hurting, but she thought that it would help if perhaps Philip did not use a sword until he had proper training.

She turned her head to look at the sun that climbed in the sky. The other man had said they were about a days walk from the pools that would show they were close to the fountain. Surely they had been walking for about a day by now. Her eyes found Philip's and she could see he seemed to be thinking the same thing as her. There was no other reason she could see for the guilt in his eyes. She looked down, feeling uncomfortable with the idea that he felt guilty for what he had done to her, especially after he had shown her more kindness than she ever had seen from a human. Even if he was rather peculiar with his talking Gods and storybook names.

Suddenly he was on his feet, his eyes wide. She stiffened as she felt the heat of other people behind her. Her eyes rose to meet his and she felt fear coil inside her as she heard the sound of fabric behind pulled apart. His gaze moved from the people behind her towards hers and she quickly looked down, her hand tightening on the fabric of his shirt as the men moved forward, a cloth sack just edging the periphery of her vision.

"Syrena-"

It all went dark.

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**Okay, next time Philip gets to be all damsel in distress and the mermaid gets to save him. Why? Because I like whump and badass females and in the end both of those things occurred-oh and the mermaid was really sweet too.**

**Please review!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Holy crapola people glommed onto "Missionary and Mermaid" as a title! I slapped that on here thinking that it wasn't the most creative title but it worked for the pair of them. Within a day now there are a bunch of stories, a C2 and fanart using the title. **

**Anyway this chapter is from Philip's pov and as such, "the mermaid" is referred to as Syrena. Because that's how he thinks of her, though I imagine she had a different name. **

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It was the absence of pain that woke Philip Swift.

Gone was the twisting, burning sting that seemed to take over his very reason for being. He could feel the stone underneath his back, though something had been placed underneath him to act as a buffer for the hard surface. He could hear the sound of water to his left, feel the change in the breeze as it skipped across the cool surface. Rocks, water, a part of him wondered if he had not left the pools at all. If he had failed and Syrena remained lashed to the ropes, stuck between water and air and dying because he had been too slow to save her. Fear overrode the desire to remain laying there and his eyes snapped open.

He was in a cave.

Philip's eyes took in the sight of rocks above his head. The cave was open at either end, accounting for the breeze he could feel and the sky he could see just beyond the rocks. It was midday, at the very least, and the sun was high. He could easily imagine the painful heat of it, especially since it felt as though his entire body had been stuffed through with salt. Moving his hand, Philip felt the odd, rubbery texture of the seaweed he had been laid upon. Letting his head fall to the side, he looked at the bulbs and tangles of the seaweed. Only a mermaid would think to put him on such a thing-or know how to get so much.

Carefully he pushed himself upright, wincing more out of what he assumed he would feel than what he actually did. Still it was enough for gentle hand to grasp his arm and help tug him up. His head turned to see Syrena sitting next to him, her hands on his forearm as she easily got him upright. Gone was his shirt, instead she was nude once more from the waist up. Or, he imagined, nude from the waist down as well but all he could see was the tail that occupied her lower half. Her hair offered some vestiges of modesty but if he had something to cover her with he would have given it.

Her eyes darted down to his stomach and back to his face. He followed her gaze, looking down at where the mortal wound should have been. Instead there was nothing. Not a scar, not a scratch, not even the dirt and grime that had been laying his skin. His hand reached up to touch the long scratch they had dealt him to make her think they slit his throat, but all he felt was skin once more. His hand flattened against his neck, fingers searching out the chord that always lay against his chest. But it was not there. Philip let his hand drop, knowing that the signs of his faith had been put to good use in saving her life, but still feeling oddly naked without them.

"I thought that mermaids kisses were supposed to kill sailors," Philip said, thinking of how the others had struggled to restrain the pirate when the mermaid had tried to kiss him, "or perhaps it is only the promise of a kiss that is deadly. Not the kiss itself."

Syrena said nothing, pushing her hands onto the stone and sliding back into the water. Philip moved forward but she made no move to escape, only to sink mostly below the waves. He realized that she was probably thrilled to be in the water again, especially after spending so much time weakened on land. He could not blame her. While he would have traded much for civilization he was happy enough to be in a place that was free of the pirates-wherever that place may have been. Pushing himself to his feet, he looked around the cave. The water moved gently as Syrena folded her arms over the lip of the stone and rested her head on them.

"When did the others depart?" he asked, looking at her.

Her head rose off of her arm as she looked at him shyly, her hands moving as she slipped further into the water. Not for the first time, Philip felt frustration surge through him at her refusal to speak. He needed to know what was going on, where he was. Where the pirates were. Dying, stranded on some island was not what he had in mind when he had decided to become a missionary. Dying while trying to help another of Gods creatures he could accept but wasting away in a cave on a beach? That was a fate he could not stomach.

"Will you not speak?" he demanded, looking at the mermaid.

Instantly he regretted the harsh tone of his words as her eyes lowered and she moved further towards the edge of the pool. After what she had been through she did not deserve to be spoken to harshly, especially not by him. Hadn't she said that he was different? The idea that he could prove her wrong in even the smallest way made his heart ache.

"It is difficult, to speak," she said suddenly, breaking the silence before he could apologize. "

He looked at her curiously. Her eyes cast to the side, something almost shameful in her gaze. She stayed where she was for a moment before she came closer and parted her lips. His eyes widened at the sight of very inhuman fangs that filled her mouth. Her eyes darted up to him before he could fully conceal his shock and instantly her lips clamped together, hiding the further evidence of her inhumanity.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I did not know."

"I did not want you to," she told him, looking up at him, "they left a day ago," she added, "with more men, who destroyed the Fountain," her fingers covered the edge of the pool, "they spoke of God."

Philip nodded. The Spaniards, he had seen them coming. It made sense that Rome would be against any source of eternal life, especially one like the Fountain that required, of all things, silver and the tears of a mermaid. But it still seemed like a terrible waste, to have the Fountain destroyed, after all they had gone through to find the thing. He looked down at Syrena. She had said speaking was difficult and the very last thing he wished to do was make things more difficult for her, but he needed to know how much trouble he was in. It was selfish and he could only hope that she would stop if it hurt her.

"Did the ritual work?" he asked, "before the Fountain was destroyed?"

"After," she said, "Blackbeard's life for his daughters," Philip looked at her in surprise, "a trick," she explained as if reading his thoughts, "he did not wish to die."'

"Not even for his child," Philip said with a shake of his head.

He doubted Blackbeard would show selflessness but he seemed to listen to his daughter. It was foolish, to think that he would show compassion for the girl when it really mattered. Syrena seemed to be watching his reaction carefully and he quickly banished any joy he would have felt at the death of his captor. Blackbeard deserved his pity, his prayers, but not his joy. Death was joyous only in its ability to reunite the Soul with the Maker. It was not for him to know which Souls God Almighty saw fit to save, though he sincerely doubted Blackbeard fell into that category, especially if his death had been through a trick, performed to thwart his desperation to save his own hide.

"I will pray for him," he said, voicing the question they both seemed to be thinking, "and that his eternal soul will find peace with God Almighty."

"Why?" Syrena asked him.

Philip looked down at her, surprised at the honest confusion in her eyes. Though if he considered it from her point of view, it was a fair question. The pirate had, after all, shown both of them about as much compassion as it seemed he had shown his own daughter. They were worthless, meaningless, his only use being to help her and hers being to produce a tear which could be used to save the pirates life. Still the man had been created by God and even if he had strayed as far from the path as Philip had ever seen, he was still one of Gods children and deserved to be prayed for.

When he explained that to Syrena, a look of distaste flitted across the mermaid's face and she turned her head away, clearly conveying that she did not share his opinion of God's universal love.

Returning to the pallet of seaweed, Philip sat back upon it. She had healed the wounds, the aches, every little pain. He could not even feel the sunburn on his skin anymore. It was difficult to fathom how a single press of lips could accomplish so much. Absentmindedly he touched the skin of his stomach, his fingers laying against skin that had been split. Against a wound that, for all intents and purposes, should have sent him to meet God Almighty, perhaps even before Blackbeard got the chance. Now there was nothing to show for what had happened, nothing except the memory of the pain and the emotions that went with it.

A soft, wet hand touched his, drawing his gaze to Syrena who was now directly in front of him.

"Its gone," he said, "but I am afraid this is was the first time I had ever been stabbed."

"But before-" she began.

"A trick," he said, thinking of the shallow cut and odd dart, "for your tear."

Whether it was the memory of her giving up her tear or the bonds they had tied her in afterwards, he had no idea. But her hand slid from his, falling silently back under the waves with the rest of her body, save for the graceful curves of her shoulders, neck and head. For a moment he was seized with worry that she would leave, but instead she swam over to the edge where he was and placed both of her hands on the lip of stone. A kick of her tail and a press of her hands and suddenly she was out of the water. Turning, she seated herself beside him and arranged her hands neatly in her lap, human hands resting on the tail of a fish. A beautiful fish, but a fish none the less.

In the light her tail caught the light. Copper, gold, amber, all the warm colors seemed to be reflected in the coral scales that covered her from the waist down. He had seen her tail before, but the panic for her life had kept him from realizing how beautiful it was. He realized that the scales did not stop at her tail. They rose up, along the gentle curve of her stomach and ribs to lay like sleeves against the warm tan of her skin. They too caught the light, making her entire body seem iridescent. Angelic, even, if Angels took to the seas instead of the skies.

When he finally dragged his eyes up to hers he realized that she was watching him from lowered eyes. At once Philip felt heat rush to his cheeks again. He seemed to blush more in the presence of the mermaid than any time he could remember. But then, it seemed that with her the common laws of prudence and social propriety were cast aside. After all, it seemed that in the water a mermaid had no use for clothing, so why should her nudity matter more on land? His eyes trailed down the glimmer of scales on her arms until they reached her wrists.

"You're hurt."

Syrena's head flew up as his hand reached out and grasped hers, gently turning it over to reveal the angry, reddened skin on her wrist. The men had been rough tying her up initially and rougher still when they tied her down after she had become useless. He had been none too careful in undoing her bonds either, more desperate to get her free before he lost consciousness than take care in making certain she did not come to further harm.

"It is nothing," she said softly, watching as his fingers brushed against the pulse point on her wrist, "i will heal."

"You should not have been hurt in the first place," Philip said, remembering all too clearly how she had looked when he staggered to her, "left out to dry like some animal."

"But I did not," she said, her hand turning so that it covered his.

Philip looked down. The hand that covered his was as delicate as the rest of her, yet on some level he knew that hand could crush him if she wished. Perhaps it was simply the way of mermaids, to be full of such paradoxes and contradictions. Yet he found he could not help but be drawn to them-and to her. Barely a day in her company and yet suddenly life without her was unimaginable. Her eyes focused on him as she watched him. Suddenly, head whipped towards the opening in the rocks, fear written on her features before she turned desperately to him.

"Syrena?"

"Do not call me Syrena in front of her," she whispered as the waters parted and a second mermaid emerged before he could ask what was going on.

Philip's eyes widened.

In all his dreams and nightmares he did not think he would ever forget the face of the mermaid in front of him. Even without the glow of the fire or the tease of the song, she was breathtaking. The sun teased the blonde in her hair, making it seem almost halo like as it fell around her angelic features and pale eyes. Try as he might, the memory of her true face with fangs and demons eyes seemed little more than a faint thought, one better left to the back of his mind.

Much to his shock, she pressed her hands to the stone and pushed herself up, sitting delicately on the rocks facing them. Unlike Syrena, her tail was as blue-green as the water when hit by the sun. She sat with her back erect, her eyes meeting his without an ounce of shame for the earlier attack by her people. If anything the way she looked at him made him feel as though he had been the one to do something wrong.

"You have saved my sister," she said finally, her blue eyes giving away no indication at how she felt at his actions.

"Truthfully, your sister saved me," Philip said, "I was dying and she kissed me."

"Then we are even," the mermaid said.

Philip nodded. The mermaid was silent for another moment, as though she was considering his words. Philip could see that she was something of a leader, certainly more in charge than Syrena was. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. Her gaze was squarely on the water, her head slightly bowed in submission and her hands folded to hide the rope marks that her wrists still bore. She looked very much like she wished to disappear and against all rationality, Philip felt anger at the blonde mermaid for making her feel as such.

"There is an island not far from here, many ships come there on their way to farer waters," the mermaid said, "you have been kissed by a mermaid, the journey will not be taxing."

"And if I do not wish to make the journey?" he demanded, the question leaving his lips before he could fully think it through.

Both mermaid's eyes snapped to him at his rash question and suddenly Philip wondered if it had been better that he not ask it. But he knew what the underlying promise of the mermaid's words were. A trade vessel would take him far away, away from the island, the Fountain, away from Syrena. Philip looked over at the mermaid. Her eyes were wide with surprise but he did not see any distaste in them. No indication that his question of staying was an unwelcome one. Bolstered by her, he looked back at the blonde mermaid who seemed not to share her sisters feelings.

"Then you may stay on this island and rot," she said with a shrug of her shoulders, "it matters not to me."

"What about her?" he asked, looking over at Syrena, "can she stay on this island?"

The mermaid looked skeptically at him,

"You would condemn her to the agony of a human shape?" she asked, "to the unimaginable pain of walking?"

Philip fought not to balk at the words of the mermaid. Walking was painful? Being human was a condemnation? He glanced at Syrena who remained unreadable as ever, though she did not seem to share the other mermaid's opinion. Or, at the very least, he hoped that if she did it would show on her face. Bravely he faced the blonde.

"No," Philip said, a smile threatening his lips, "I would carry her."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Syrena duck her head to hide the smile on her lips. The blonde mermaid's eyes narrowed, clearly missing the endearment. Philip hoped he did not think he was mocking her, he was being honest. He had, of course, carried Syrena for the better part of a day during their journey to the Fountain. And thanks to her kiss, his arms did not ache at all. If it took him carrying her another day, he would do it gladly. After a moment of silence the blonde mermaid broke the silence and though her gaze remained on his, her words were not meant for him.

"Then she must choose," she said, "her sisters or the man of God?"

Philip did not think he had ever heard his title sneered as such an insult. Even the Pirates seemed to hold a glimmer of respect, if not for him than for God Almighty. He fought the urge to frown at the tone before it registered what she had said. His eyes widened. She was asking Syrena to choose, to pick between the life she knew and the life she could have with him. To decide to be a mermaid or a human, a creature of the sea or one of land. They had only spent a day in each others company, it hardly seemed to warrant a thought as to which she would pick.

Yet he could feel her gaze, hot on his skin and realized that she was watching _him_, to see how he felt. She was actually considering what the blonde mermaid had to offer. He kept his eyes on the water for as long as he could before he allowed himself the weakness of looking at her. It was impossible to tell what she was thinking, only that she was considering both options. His eyes met hers and he did everything he could to keep his features blank.

To not let her know how much, God help him, he wished for her to choose a life with him.

And then, to the surprise of himself and the blonde mermaid, Syrena twisted, lifting her spectacular tail out of the water and brought it firmly down onto the rocks.

Just as before, the tail fell away with a whisper of water, leaving a very naked young woman where a mermaid had previously been. Philip felt heat race to his cheek as he realized that there was nothing but her long brown hair covering the pale skin. Unlike before, however, her head was held high and she seemed to match the blonde mermaid for haughtiness.

With dignity that surprised even him, Syrena rose to her feet. Her legs trembled with the effort, unused muscles straining to accommodate the burden of her weight. Vaguely he heard the other mermaid make a sound but it did not matter. Hs thoughts were only on the mermaid in front of him, struggling to stand even though he knew that any assistance he could give would not be well received. Carefully he rose with her, fear flashing through him at the memory of how hard she had fallen when the ground was covered in leaves The rocks below their feet looked incredibly dangerous but Syrena managed to wobble to her feet.

Without warning her legs buckled.

Philip's arm wound around her back in a flash, shouldering the burden of her slight weight onto his frame. He could feel her tremble with the effort of getting to her feet after all that she had been through. Her eyes rose to meet his and he felt his heart break at the pained look in her eyes. Whatever point she was trying to make would have to wait. She was in pain and he was not going to stand by and let her suffer more. His back moved, ready to bend down and pick her up.

And then the sound of the other mermaid laughing echoed through the cave.

Determination flashed in Syrena's eyes at the sound of the blonde mermaid's amusement. Forcefully he moved his hand away from her knee. Her other hand gripped the back of his vest, fingers knotted in the fabric but her legs remained on the ground. He imagined it was sheer will more than anything else that let her lift her leg and place it down in front of her. The laughter paused as Syrena took a deep breath and lifted her other foot, taking a small, jerky step forward. The laughter did not start again. Philip's fingers tightened on her rib cage, helping to bolster her weight as they continued their slow journey forward.

Finally the sound of splashing reached their ears as the blonde mermaid slid away.

With a choked gasp, Syrena's legs buckled and she all but collapsed against him. Philip scooped her up, lowering her carefully to the ground as the muscles in her legs trembled with the effort they had just gone through. It did not matter that the woman in his arms was naked, or that a moment ago she had a tail in the place of legs. All that mattered was the pain written clearly on her face. She had just been tortured, it was unfair that she was expected to suffer further.

"I am so sorry," he said, looking at her legs, "I should not have let you walk-"

Her finger pressed against his lips, silencing him as effectively as a gag.

"I chose to walk," she told him before lowering her hand and carefully pushing herself up, "I will walk," she said, though if her promise was for her or for him, he could not say.

"But the pain-" he began, thinking of the mermaid's earlier words.

"Philip," she sighed his name, in a tone his mother would have used when his head got too far in the clouds.

"Of course," he said, realizing the exaggeration for what it was. Syrena's hands tightened against his as she moved to stand, "wait, no," he shook his head. She looked at him, "you have been through enough as it is."

"I will not have you carry me forever," she pointed out, a warning in her tone.

"Nor would I," he replied, wincing at the falsehood as it came too easily from his lips, "but for today-" he began, trailing off when she looked away.

Pride was one of the sins. Philip knew that and yet as he watched the mermaid in his arms he could not help but admire the pride in her gaze. Fully clothed, he imagined she would be a truly breathtaking lady. Unfortunately the thought of her in clothing reminded him painfully of the fact that she currently was wearing none. Swallowing against the sudden tightness in her throat, he felt heat burn at his cheeks the likes of which he had not felt since she was in his arms and his hand slid well up the length of her thigh.

"To those rocks," she said, pointing at a cluster not ten steps away.

"Will you lean on me?" he asked.

"Yes," she said sliding her arm around his neck.

Philip rose with her, letting her take the lead. Her steps were halted, slow, but they were steps. It took them a very long time to get to the rocks, long enough that the sunset was beginning by the time they reached them. But the pride in her gaze at the victory and the odd surge of joy he felt for her seemed to outshine the sun. And then, much to his surprise, her lips parted and a laugh of pure delight spilled from them. His eyes widened at the beauty of the sound before he felt his own face break out into a grin.

"Well done Syrena!" he congratulated her.

Her arms went about his neck before he could fully comprehend what was happening and suddenly the entirety of her body was pressed against his. His entire brain seemed to go blank, even as he felt the heated blush he had worn drain from his cheeks. Her body was still wet, her hair doing a very bad job of acting as a buffer between the two of them. Suddenly he wished desperately that he had thought to grab his shirt, or sew his vest shut, or _something_. Yet when he felt her draw back and the tease of air between them he irrationally wished for her to remain exactly where she had been.

"Are you not feeling well?" she asked with concern, "I will keep walking-"

"No," he shook his head, thinking of her earlier pain, "no it is not that," he fought the urge to shudder as she moved, her soft skin brushing lightly against his, "I have not been in the company of a woman in such a state of undress," he confessed.

Confusion ruled her face before comprehension dawned and much to his surprise he saw two spots of color grace her cheeks.

"I did not know-" she began, "but you carried me for so long."

"It seems silly for my discomfort to cause you to suffer," he replied, his voice matching hers for softness.

Her head titled gently to the side as she studied him. Philip found himself powerless under her inspection. Eyes so wise should not belong to a face so young. One of her hands reached up and touched a faint mark above his eye, a cut that under any circumstance would have been a scar. Her palm was delicate, perfectly smooth. As smooth as the un-calloused soles of her feet. The urge to protect her was overwhelming in its strength, though at the same time he thought it somewhat ridiculous. He scarcely had more experience with the world than she. Syrena's fingertips trailed to the skin of his cheek, rough with the shadow of a beard he seemed to be growing now. The beautiful smile was back on her lips as her thumb ran along the roughness.

"Why?" he asked finally, "why did you choose me?"

"You did not ask me to save you," she said, "only to forgive," her gaze softened, "you are not like the other men," her fingers moved to the curve of his jaw, "I would not like a world without you in it."

Philip looked down at her, struck by the simple honesty in her words. Her eyes moved downwards before holding his own gaze once more. She leaned forward, her body fitting against his. Philip felt his own lips part in anticipation as the mermaid gently pressed her mouth to his. There was no drag of water or burn of wound this time to fog his mind. There was only the unbearable softness of her lips and the rush of his heart as it pounded in his chest. His lips parted further, deepening the kiss as his arms wound their way around her back, fingers threading easily through the length of her hair.

They broke apart, both breathing unsteadily as his forehead rested against hers. Her hands cupped his cheeks, her warm breath fanning across his face as he fought to regain control of himself. A part of him still could not fathom that his kidnapping had led him to this moment, standing on a deserted island kissing a mermaid.

The sound of a throat being cleared drew both their gazes over to the side.

Standing in a large group was a number of very well dressed men, the thick gold embroidered on their jackets revealing they were wealthy and the conformity of their dress revealing they were most likely not pirates. Even on the heat and harshness of the island they wore the wigs and the buckles on their boots were carefully polished. But the greatest give away as to their origins was the fact that when faced with the sight of a beautiful, naked woman, their only reaction was to keep their eyes firmly on him.

"Who are you?" one man asked, his thick accent revealing these men to be the remnants of the Spanish who had not, in fact, departed with the pirates.

"My name is Philip Swift," he said, injecting as much authority into his voice as he could, "I was captured by the pirate Blackbeard some weeks ago."

"And why would Blackbeard capture you?" the man questioned, "why not kill you?"

"His daughter would not let him," he said, "I am a missionary and she is a woman of deep faith."

The Spanish found it more than mildly amusing that a pirate could have any kind of faith, but amidst their laughter Philip watched as the man he had been conversing with undid the sash about his waist and stripped off the long jacket he wore, tossing it to him. Philip caught it deftly and turned to Syrena, carefully pulling it over her shoulders. The mermaid slid her arms into the sleeves and quickly set about doing up the buttons of the massive black coat.

"Can you sail?" the man asked.

"Not very well," Philip said.

"He is a quick learner," Syrena spoke up in his defense, drawing the mans gaze to her. For a moment she drew back, as though she was afraid of what the man would do to her. Then she straightened up, "and he is very strong," she added.

"Is he now?" the Spaniard inquired.

"He has carried me for a day," Syrena pointed out, "since my foot was injured and I could not walk."

"And what is your name?" the Spaniard asked.

"Syrena," she replied as quickly as if it was the name she had been born with, "I too was captured by Blackbeard."

The Spaniard seemed to consider them both for a moment. If he had been put in charge by the death of another it did not show. He seemed to be as accustom to authority as Syrena was to the water. He did not even glance back at the men but Philip got the distinct impression that whatever he said would be listened to without a second thought.

"Many of my men have perished in doing Gods work," the Spaniard said, "they died with honor but honor, unfortunately, does not sail a ship," he looked at Syrena, "have you ever been to Spain?" he asked her.

She shook her head. The Spaniard looked hard at her for a moment before turning around.

"But i should like to go," Syrena said abruptly.

The smile that pulled at the mans lips suddenly made him seem both far more sinister and younger. He turned fully to the men and signaled them to move out.

"We sail with the tide," he said to the two of them.

Philip nodded and looked at Syrena who was watching the Spaniards. She turned to look at him and he tried his best to smile. Getting off the island was far more important than who they got off it with, and sailing with Spaniards could not possibly be worse than sailing with pirates. Syrena returned his smile, her arm sliding around his shoulders to its familiar resting place. Philip stooped down and hooked his arm under her knees, straightening up with the mermaid in his arms. She looked down at him, her own face painted with disappointment.

"You will walk," Philip said to her quietly. She looked at him doubtfully, "and when you are able to walk," he continued, "I will teach you to dance."

This time the smile she gave him was so dazzling it truly made his heart skip.

* * *

**Okay, so next time is the last chapter and will be after they get off the Spanish ship when they are 'home'-ish. It will be longer and from both their POVs (so 1 chapter her, 1 chapter him, 1 chapter both) and will explain what choices Syrena made and why. **

**Please review! **


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